


Records

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Winter Mornings - HeAteUs Survival Plan [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Affection, Confessions, Fondness, M/M, Softness, instructions, shameless fluff, this is what we promised to help through the he-ate-us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hannibal huffs a laugh, draws up a knee to set his tablet against and licks his lips.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“I distinctly remember the rule being that whoever chose the initial record would be the one to change it to another.”</i></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lazy winter afternoons lead to lazy sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Records

**Author's Note:**

> So while writing the ever-growing Ya'aburnee series, we decided that we would also toss together some headcanons that were kicking around in our heads. We currently have about 6 of these things, some tie in to things we mention in Ya'aburnee, others are standalone. They could be timestamps, they might be timestamps. There might also be more of these to come.
> 
> Any and all comments welcomed and loved.
> 
> Any and all requests will be carefully considered, for more headcanons.

It’s too early to sleep and too late to get up. Three o’clock flirts with four and the needle hisses softly against the vinyl as it turns.

Wolf Trap is warm. Warmer than it gets in Baltimore, and Hannibal has put it down to the sheer number of living creatures that fill the rooms. The dogs, most of them, have spread themselves across the living room. Cameo is by the kitchen, Winston by the door. Buster has made himself comfortable on the sofa and Maggie, despite Hannibal’s complaints and sounds of apparent displeasure, rests with her heavy head against his ankle.

Against him, Will shifts in a sleepy sort of stretch that does little for his muscles and a lot for the pleasing shift of skin against skin.

“It’s your turn,” he mumbles, “to change the record.”

Hannibal huffs a laugh, draws up a knee to set his tablet against and licks his lips.

“I distinctly remember the rule being that whoever chose the initial record would be the one to change it to another,” he murmurs, amusement curling his tone.

Will drags a hand across his eyes, squints at the clock on the wall, and considers for a long moment how long he could stand to listen to the static from the player in favor of staying where he is.

“I didn’t make that rule,” he mutters, studying the handful of records from across the room. A pause. “Yes I did. I just assumed you were always going to pick the first one.”

With a sigh, he rolls over to drop his feet against the floor. Drawing a breath between his teeth, he pads across the cold floorboards, tugging Hannibal’s sleep pants - they come with him now when they go to Wolf Trap on the weekend - higher on his hips. They slip lower as soon as he lets go to pry another record from the shelf, brows knit in focus as he exchanges them.

“Davis again?” His favorite, not only for being the first record that Hannibal brought home for him, he would argue, although certainly the warm tingles the familiar music draws down his scalp is reason enough.

Hannibal watches him, head tilted just so to admire the way the late afternoon sun falls across the planes of skin Will has bare. Lets his eyes travel over the smooth end of his back, marred only by the wound on his shoulder. Lets his eyes take in the way his waist tapers to his hips, lips pressing together in a pleased smile at how long the pants sit against him and how Will refuses to tighten the string.

He hums his agreement with the choice of record and leans back further into the pillows as he watches Will change it and set the needle carefully. Another hiss, and then the now-familiar way Will splays his fingers and shifts his hand to the start of the music.

Hannibal quietly clicks his tongue and shifts his foot. The dog looks at him with huge, sad eyes and he smiles, shaking his head. With a soft whine, Maggie jumps to the floor and pads past Will on her way to the living room to lie by the fire there, burned low now but still warm. When Will turns to return to bed, Hannibal feigns indifference, keeps his eyes on his tablet as he scans the headlines for anything remotely attention-grabbing.

He lifts his arm obligingly when Will crawls back into bed and under it.

Will watches the interplay between them, observes as Maggie finds a new place to lie that isn’t drooling against Hannibal’s leg, and he makes a curious noise.

“At this rate they’re only going to come to me for hand-outs, and you for everything else,” Will murmurs low against Hannibal’s chest. “You’ll have them all doing tricks. In unison.”

With a few fidgets, adjusting so that the blanket is drawn up over his hips and as much of himself is pressed to as much of Hannibal as possible, Will settles.

Feels the ebb and flow of Hannibal's breath steady as a metronome against him. Feels the press of his hip when Will draws closer still. The heat of his thigh when Will twines a leg with his.

He stretches an arm over him, and traces a line down Hannibal's neck, following the curve of his collarbone to his shoulder and down his arm. Will presses a palm skimming appreciatively over the curve of his bicep, his forearm - a constant pull of his attention when he watches Hannibal cook, all effortless elegance and glimpses of strength. Will’s fingers touch in time to the steady rhythm of the bass playing warm from the record player, up the dark line raised along his wrist, to where Hannibal’s fingers move smooth against the tablet’s glass.

Will groans when he sees Tattlecrime on the screen and buries his face against Hannibal, mouthing warm against his chest.

“Somehow I keep hoping I’ll find you reading the New Yorker,” he teases, letting his hand splay instead across Hannibal’s stomach.

“You are never awake early enough when I peruse it,” Hannibal replies easily, eyes half closed in pleasure and smile soft. He curls one hand up to stroke over Will’s messy curls, warm and soft against his head.

He smells like firewood and coffee, the barest hint of the outside snow from when he’d let the dogs out that morning. He smells like home.

He lifts his tablet deliberately, eyes still on it, when Will shifts closer, settles himself half on Hannibal and half against the bed, hand stroking smooth circles over Hannibal’s stomach and dipping barely lower, faintly suggestive.

He keeps reading as Will kisses his way up to his neck, his smile wider now, eyes just as focused, amused.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Will considers lightly, lips moving soft against Hannibal’s ear. “I think you’re like every other New Yorker subscriber. You keep it and set it aside and tell yourself you’ll read it later.” A grin, now. “Accruing a digital stack of them that you’ll never touch in favor of reading Tattlecrime.”

He glances at the tablet and sees that Hannibal is unmoved by his mild accusations of being just like everyone else. Watches him flick to the next story. Glances up to see his brow arch in feigned disinterest.

Will untwines his leg and slides it across Hannibal’s thighs instead, sheets twisting around his body as he moves to sit astride him instead. Arches just so, hips rolling once in vague promise, as though he could muster interest for a third time that day. Pressing his hands against Hannibal’s stomach, through the soft hair there beneath the tablet.

“The literary equivalent of reality television,” Will murmurs, amused.

Considering dark eyes meet Will’s a moment, and Hannibal’s free hand slides to settle just behind Will’s knee to hold there, thumb stroking over his thigh.

“Do you know that court jesters, in their time, were the only ones allowed to speak truth?” he murmurs, as Will rolls his hips again, heavy and slow. It sends a feeling through him like freefall, stomach feeling empty, weightless.

“I read this for the truths between the lines.” His smile curves higher and he finally closes the cover over it before setting it on the nightstand on top of a mug of unfinished something. Tea, probably.

Then he sets his hand to mirror his other, using the leverage to draw Will higher up his body, leaning up to part his lips near Will’s and share his breath, before just nuzzling him instead.

Will makes a little sound at this, hands still splayed against Hannibal’s stomach, working in a firm press up to his chest. He presses his nose back alongside Hannibal’s and touches their foreheads together.

“The king, eager to hear himself spoken of earnestly, in a world of sycophants,” Will responds softly, mouth brushing soft against Hannibal’s own without kissing him, not yet. “Taking stock of pretenders to the throne.”

The music swells and Will twists his hips low again, as languid as the pull of trumpet drawing soft from the old vinyl. Not a new copy - no heavy gram vinyl remastered and revised and produced to pristine clarity. An original pressing, with all its pops and crackles and warmth. Even more than the surprise Will felt when Hannibal set it on the player for the first time, he remembers the crinkles in the corners of Hannibal’s eyes, the pleasure drawn from giving Will something that made him blush warm and touched.

In a fire, after the dogs, it’s the first thing Will would take with him.

Will lifts a hand, the other still spread soft through his chest hair, to draw along the back of Hannibal’s neck, into his hair, letting it fall between his fingers.

“The ruling monarch in a kingdom of dogs, his loyal subjects,” Will grins.

Hannibal just hums, eyes barely open now, just enough to see the shadows of Will before him. He would know him blindfolded.

“Am I a pretender?” he asks Will softly, arches his neck to nudge Will’s face gently higher, again lips just brush, nothing more. “Am I a sycophant or the fool?”

Their voices are barely raised, lost in the music more often than not but then… so are they. Warm and lazy and twisting to every slow swell and click of the record. Another low note that curls smooth around them, and Hannibal pulls Will harder against him now, still slow, still teasing but more.

A cool trickle up Will’s back, a shiver drawn by the way Hannibal’s accent turns soft over the words. He leans close against him, chests and stomachs and hips all meeting in a languid undulation. Will turns his cheek against Hannibal’s mouth, lips parted into a brief smile.

It’s snowing again, gathering quiet against the windows that overlook the empty space around them, drifts of white all the way to the treeline, dark against the pale sky. No one in the world but them.

“The new king,” Will informs him, quiet amusement, turning back to press their foreheads together again. “The usurper of my formerly uncontested rulership.”

Will slides his hand up over Hannibal’s shoulder, lets his arm drape there and presses his palm along Hannibal’s back, to feel the shift of muscles each time their hips meet.

“But the citizens have embraced you, in your benevolent dictatorship,” Will murmurs, drawing his other hand free to run his fingers along Hannibal’s hairline, smoothing the soft strands back out of his face, thumb brushing over his brow. “I must pay tribute, then, or risk ignominious exile.”

He tilts his forehead against Hannibal’s temple, mouth warm and dry against his cheek. A soft kiss, in time with the upward twist of piano that pulls another shiver from him, that tugs their bodies together again.

It's a pleasurable torment, the teasing driving them both hard again, despite the morning, the night before... Hannibal hums gently and turns his face enough to catch Will's lips with his own, parting his lips by parting his own, tongues gentle against each other before he sighs and brings their mouths together properly.

One hand splays against the back of Will’s head, nails barely brushing his scalp. His other slides up to hold his hips properly, to shift them in another languid circle against him.

He breaks the kiss on a low groan.

"What do you offer?" He continues the metaphor, smile warm.

Will considers the question, lifting his gaze towards the ceiling and letting his head rest against Hannibal’s hand. Neck bared towards Hannibal, the curve carrying down through his spine, through his hips, rocking languid.

“Coffee,” Will suggests, musing gently. “Fresh, every morning. Brought to you before it can start to cool.”

Will knows it’s not the answer Hannibal wants - not yet - and delights in this, flushed bright and sleepy-eyed as he sinks his arms around Hannibal’s neck, to draw their mouths together again. A simple, sweet kiss, once.

Hannibal smiles, allows it, presses his forehead to Will’s when he pulls away and keeps his eyes down as his hands slide to the front of the sleep pants Will has adopted, fingers working carefully on the knot to undo it.

“Perhaps it will earn you leniency,” he says, voice a low rumble now. Around them, the track ends and the next begins. “But not security.”

He tugs the string and deliberately pulls it free from the loose twist until the knot comes free.

“Tell me what else.”

Goosebumps along Will’s arms as Hannibal’s voice presses against his skin, pressing closer to him still, arms wound around his neck so closely that his fingers tangle in Hannibal’s hair.

“A harsh but fair ruler,” Will sighs against Hannibal’s mouth, briefly catching his lower lip between his teeth as a small, eager sound curls on a sigh. The first suggestion of a more pressing need as Hannibal teases him, as Will teases him in return with another languorous movement to draw himself against Hannibal’s hardness.

“My lands, then,” Will laughs, loosening his arms to press his hands to Hannibal’s face instead, to let them rest there, to stroke his thumbs over the curves of Hannibal’s cheeks. “Meager by comparison but yours to visit and live in as it suits you.”

Hannibal’s lips part and close again, lips curving in a pleased smile as he swallows, raises an eyebrow.

He keeps his eyes on Will’s as the younger man spreads his thighs a little more and settles closer still, his back arched in a smooth bend to press himself closer. He slides the pants slowly off Will’s hips, a deliberately intimate gesture, slowly revealing skin without dipping his eyes to look. No. He holds Will’s eyes instead. Earned eye contact. Watches as Will’s throat works to swallow, his pupils widen.

_Yes._

“More,” he coaxes, tone regal, suddenly, pleased. He tilts his chin up and slides the fabric lower still until it just barely covers Will, rubs just enough against sensitive skin to part his lips on a gasp.

Will’s eyes dart towards Hannibal’s mouth, watching as it forms the word. He leans in to taste it, to work his lips softly against Hannibal’s own and feel them part just enough for their tongues to trace together before he draws back again. He ducks his forehead against Hannibal’s, nuzzles against his cheek.

“Demanding,” whispers Will against the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, shifting against Hannibal’s hands on his hips. “But I’m in no position to deny you, am I?”

He trails his fingers fondly down the curve of Hannibal’s neck, a soft sound escaping Will’s parted lips as Hannibal presses up against him.

“Assistance,” Will murmurs, lips pressing just beneath Hannibal’s jaw. “In the daring and widely proclaimed victories you’ve achieved in the kitchen. Though my skills pale in compare.”

Hannibal hums, soft, pleased, and his fingers tighten against Will’s skin enough for him to tense just gently, just enough. The teasing is exquisite, breathtaking for them both. It’s late afternoon and they have nowhere to be but here.

Together.

Now.

“Alas,” he replies, sliding the pants lower still, hands shifting to feel the curve of Will’s ass, fingers just skimming the delicate skin in the curve where it meets his thighs.

“That will only win you favor for the day the offering is given,” he smiles, leaning close to Will before pulling back to deny him another kiss.

“What will you do when the nights grow cold?”

Will chases Hannibal’s mouth, leaning into him until their lips brush soft, and a little noise escapes him at the feeling.

“Throw myself on your mercy,” Will responds, seeking more contact with Hannibal’s hands tucked beneath him, not finding it and appearing pleased and flushed despite. “Surely you’re not even so cruel as that, monarch,” sighs Will, a smile catching one corner of his parted lips.

“Surely,” Hannibal murmurs, leans in to give Will a more direct kiss, a gift, as around them the sound of the needle over the vinyl clicks.

“Get up,” he whispers, the words pressed by air to Will’s lips. “Turn the record,”

He smiles, deliberately squeezes Will’s thighs as he spreads them, catching the gasp it draws from Will.

“Then come back here to me.”

Will laughs, at his exile into the cold, and frames Hannibal's face with his hands again, a rosy flush blooming over his cheeks.

“Always.”

A whispered response. Gentle. Entirely genuine.

Will lets his hand linger for a moment more against Hannibal’s cheek before sliding off of him and onto the floor. A flinch, brief, at the temperature of it, as he makes his way to the record player again. He stands with one foot atop the other, shifting periodically when the bottom foot grows too cold, and sets the needle back against the second side of the album.

Will’s fingers spread in the air as he listens to the music start - disparate piano notes and winding trumpet and warm plunking bass - and realizes after a few long measures pass that he’s closed his eyes to hear it, to let the breathing, living heat of the music wrap itself around him. Contented. Comfortable.

He lingers for a moment more, feeling the heat of the music and the heat that Hannibal has stirred in him, reveling in it quietly before turning - tugging up the sleep pants a little as he goes - to return to the bed. He draws up alongside Hannibal, and wraps a leg over him again. A soft press of hips, warm desire.

In answer Hannibal just kisses him, a lingering, slow, deep thing that sets Will’s heart beating faster against Hannibal’s fingers where they touch his neck. He kisses him until he’s dizzy with it, and then he pulls away.

“Always is a hefty promise,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to Will’s and sliding one hand between them to stroke him through the smooth fabric, relishes the soft gasps against his skin as Will starts to respond, hips pressing more insistently against him.

“The only answer significant enough to ‘always’ is ‘anything’.”

Hannibal’s fingers seek beyond the waistband, lower, feeling the warm skin against his palm, the heat of Will, the weight and significance and realness of him.

“What would you ask someone who would give you anything?” he whispers, eyes hooded, lips close, gently nuzzling Will before allowing him to move as he pleases.

_Anything._

Will’s attention focuses lower, still pressed close enough to feel Hannibal’s words against his cheek, observing heavy-lidded the movement of Hannibal’s hand beneath his pants. His lips part, breath catching as Hannibal’s hand strokes long over him.

He presses his hand to Hannibal’s face, fingers curved against his jaw and thumb stroking soft affection across his cheekbone.

“Just this,” Will answers, turning to catch Hannibal’s mouth beneath his own. “You.”

A quiet gasp caught in Will’s throat as Hannibal’s wrist turns slowly over him, and Will reaches down to hook a thumb in the waistband of the loosened pants, to push them down his hips.

It’s a gentle shift, Hannibal pushing back against the pillows to sit higher as his hands work to divest Will of the pants. The blankets are bunched at their feet now, Will’s toes just beneath where it rests when he blessedly does not use Hannibal as a foot warmer.

The kisses become more frequent, soft things, comforting, but slowly and slowly more and more demanding, until Hannibal’s hands slip over Will’s hips and back, enough to spread him and stroke warm fingers against his entrance.

He relishes the soft groan Will makes, enjoys the way the smile spreads over Will’s face like butter warmed, and catches a hand in his hair to tug him down and kiss deeper.

_Anything._

_Always._

Sliding a palm firm against Hannibal’s briefs, Will relinquishes an easy sigh, fingers wrapping around him through the fabric, to rub slow against the pleasing fullness there, the heat and little twitches of movement beneath his hand.

“Beautiful,” Will breathes, hardly enough voice in his sigh to form the word passed between their mouths, his turn to feed the praise he so often hears back to Hannibal now in return. The word is caught between them when he kisses Hannibal more deeply now, open-mouthed and moaning soft. Will presses back only a little against the fingers that press slow circles against him, pleased enough by the sensation of it and the anticipation of knowing there will be more, knowing he needn’t rush despite the eager twist pulling tight through his belly.

The word draws a grin, pleased and warm and for a moment Hannibal looks someone other than himself. Someone who smiles easily, often. Someone who didn’t lose so much.

His hands come up to hold just below Will’s shoulderblades, fingers splayed, and he turns them, sets Will’s back to the bed and moves to rest over him, elbows to the bed and knees between Will’s. The movements are liquid, languid, slow, like a cat stretching in the sun, and Hannibal kisses him as he pulls his body long and warm over Will’s, lifts his hips to allow Will’s hands to peel his clothes away.

Around them, one track melds to another, the hissing click of the needle between, filling the room with warmth, dust motes meandering in the weak beams of light that fall through the windows as the sun moves lower.

Hannibal kisses Will like he’s never done it before, as though nothing else matters and nothing else will. One hand cups his face, the other curled above him, just barely touching the soft curls that lie there. Their hips shift together more deliberately now, seeking friction and heat between them.

Breathing gets harsher, kisses turn sloppy, to just barely brushing lips as they share air.

He surrounds Hannibal with himself, arms drawn lazily around Hannibal’s neck even as Will rubs with eager urgency against him, hips meeting again and again. Will wraps his leg around Hannibal to keep him closer still, so that when he arches upwards with a pleased little noise he can feel every part of Hannibal’s chest and stomach and hips pressed fast against his own, soft chest hair and tightened muscles and the thrum of his heart, faster now between them.

Will sighs a laugh, a breath sudden and sweet, at nothing in particular but the pleasant tension in his chest when he opens his eyes enough to see Hannibal draw in to kiss him again. Fingers wrap through Hannibal’s hair, disheveled and comfortable and he lets them linger there, leaning in to meet his mouth again.

His body sings for more, their flushed full lengths damp between them, but Will turns against the hand framing his face and places a kiss there and tilts into the hand twisting his curls and he reaches down to touch himself instead, fingers pressing against the sensitive skin of his opening.

A quiet little noise breathed past parted lips as he does, hooded eyes meeting Hannibal’s, grin catching in the corners of them.

He is beautiful, needy and relaxed and almost wanton in the way he moves. Hannibal couldn’t stop looking at Will if he wanted to.

He ducks his head, kisses beneath Will’s chin, over his throat, feels it shift in swallows, with panted breaths as Will presses his fingers deeper, works himself open beneath Hannibal as he just waits, lets him.

It’s the most beautiful vulnerability, watching Will do it, feeling him shiver with it, arch up and seek more from it. He kisses the sounds from Will’s lips when he makes them, when they grow more desperate.

He allows the quiet ‘please’, that Will gasps against him, eyes closed and throat bared, and shifts to spread Will a little more before slowly pressing in.

Will is still comfortably loose from the morning, from the insatiability of the night before, but it’s still an exquisite pressure, a stretch that draws Will’s lips wide and Hannibal’s down to taste the sweat from his skin.

They settle against each other there, measures of music pass and they are still but for Will’s fingers stroking soft against Hannibal’s hair, down the back of his neck. No more movement than that and the gentle twitches of muscle against each other as the moment is allowed to breathe between them.

Will gives first, a faint grin as he does, shifting his hips to stir Hannibal to movement and dragging a leg up to hook over his thigh. They share a low groan as Hannibal moves in a languid stroke inside of him.

“Myself,” Will finally offers, something deeper than amusement in his eyes, “as tribute.”

He touches Hannibal’s mouth as he kisses him, fingertips pressed against the corners of his lips when they join eagerly together, heat building between them.

They move slowly, savoring the motion, the friction, each other, before Hannibal finally pulls away.

“A generous tribute,” he murmurs, tracing his lips over Will’s throat as he tilts his head back. He shifts, enough for Will to tense, to twist beneath him and then arch up with a loud, pleased sound.

“Your soul?” he asks, voice low.

“Yes.”

Another shift, another bend, and Will’s hands scrabble against Hannibal’s shoulders, no longer as gentle; desperate and hard.

“Your will?”

“Yes!”

Hannibal holds him still, pushes deeper, feels Will tremble with it, feels the way he unfurls and then curls back against him, legs hooked over Hannibal’s hips, arms tight from his hair to his shoulders and lower before skimming back up.

“Your heart?” he breathes.

“Always.”

At that, Hannibal stills, pushes in deep, feels Will shudder with the sensation, feels the wetness between them as Will’s cock slicks their stomachs. He frames Will’s face with his hands, just watches him, dark eyes to blue, then he leans in, close, feels Will’s lips part for his and says softly,

“Endure for me…”

"Anything."

Their mouths move soft together, hardly so much a kiss as just feeling the other against them, before Will traces light kisses along Hannibal's cheek, quiet adoration in each little sound that escapes as Hannibal drives into him.

Surpassing the curvatures of the music now as they find each other again and again, languid thrusts turned ardent, and Will does as asked, enduring with pleasure every time Hannibal's body slides into and against his own, every time their mouths meet in passing gasps and quick grins, every time Will arches against Hannibal and he groans low and rough against Will's neck in response.

Out of tempo with the music but effortlessly in time with each other, a breathless joy in simply being whole again.

Faster, now, more bright little cries as Will feels his body tensing more each measure.

Hannibal can feel him coiling, can feel him holding back, obedience and adoration mingling together for this, just this. He draws another desperate little sob from Will before kissing him hard, pressing him back into the soft bed as he pushes himself up on his arms and moves faster.

“Now, Will…”

And as simply as that, Will's fingers curl in Hannibal's hair and the needle of the record skims softly into static and the only sound beyond the weight of their breath is Will gasping soft as he lets himself slip into a gentle, pulsing release.

He presses his forehead against Hannibal's shoulder, parted lips joining only to press kisses against his doctor's skin, to taste the sweat salty against his chest, to feel the hairs that tickle against his cheek and the heart that he lets beat fast for Will, only for Will.

Hannibal settles against him, Will’s pleasure drawing his own from him in a hot pull, turns his head to nuzzle Will softly, smiling against his skin as they both catch their breaths.

For a long while they don’t speak, nothing but breaths and heart beats and soft stroking fingers. Then Hannibal pulls away, strokes a hand over Will’s chest, and turns to lie on his side, watching him as their legs tangle in lazy languid pleasure.

“The things you would do for a king,” he says softly, “bestowed on a lowly Count instead.” His lips twitch in a smile.

“I should offer myself in trade, for that.”

Will doesn’t spare him a look at this, arm resting across his eyes as he breathes a note of vague amusement through his nose.

“I’ve just had you,” Will reminds him, and it’s a moment more before Hannibal’s words register fully.

“You’re not, actually,” he adds, and now he turns a look from beneath his arm to find only faintest amusement curved across Hannibal’s mouth. A groan, before Will huffs a laugh. “You are. Of course you are.”

Hannibal smiles a little wider, watches Will take the information in, consider it properly. Then, to his amusement, Will hums, and drapes his arm over his eyes again.

"And you would give your soul to me?"

"Yes."

"Your heart? Your very being?"

"Yes," Hannibal smiles, turns to press his face partially to the blanket. "Anything."

Another hum, a sound suggesting raised eyebrows and a smirk though neither are evident. Then Will’s tongue peeks red between his lips, parting them in a gesture Hannibal recognizes as his own, and he murmurs,

"Change the record."

Hannibal stays still, pleasure welling up in his chest warm and soft, before he pulls away, stands at the edge of the bed and sketches a bow.

"As you wish."

He doesn't miss the grin as he turns to obey.


End file.
